The Author
by Cynara
Summary: Many times, the characters from JKR's canon are written seriously out of whack. Here's why:
1. Dumbledore's Bad Day

The Author: Dumbledore's Bad Day

Albus Dumbledore was having a very normal morning.  He got out of bed, looked at his night-robe (a very becoming sparkly mauve) and decided that it was nice enough that he wanted to share.  He went down to breakfast without getting changed.  He crunched his bacon merrily and twinkled at everyone who caught his eye.

          Later, reinstalled behind his desk in his office, he ingested five cups of tea and reached for his morning mail.  He tried to ignore Fawkes, who coughed brokenly from his perch in the corner, very near his Burning Period.

          It was at this relaxed juncture that everything started to go awry.  There came a loud _crash_ from just outside his office door, followed by muffled expletives and a polite tap on the door.  The door swung open before Dumbledore could respond, and in stepped a young woman with short brown hair with a small leather satchel and no-nonsense green robes.  She was straightening said robes as she entered, and it appeared to Dumbledore that she had fallen through the roof of his tower and hit the floor in his waiting chamber with a resounding bump.  It certainly explained the noise.

          "I beg your pardon, but—" the Headmaster began, but was cut off abruptly.

          "I'm here to make some changes deemed appropriate by the Ministry of Authors," the woman interrupted tersely.  "I require some rooms, full run of the school, and absolute secrecy."

          Dumbledore goggled uncharacteristically for a moment.  "I—I don't think I can just…"

          An impatient sigh escaped the woman, and she muttered to herself, "For once I'd like to get one where they didn't argue…" She snapped her fingers three times briskly.

          "Rewrite!" she said.

          The office door opened, and a stunningly beautiful teenager poked her blonde head in.

          "Um, excuse me, sir?"  She spoke with an accent.  It seemed to be one from North America, with a very creative hint of Irish and French.

          Dumbledore shook his head once or twice.  The girl blinked innocently.  Brushing off the unsettling feeling that something very unexplainable had just happened, he smiled in a grandfatherly way.  "Come in, my dear," he said.

          The unknown and (dare we say) mysterious stranger stepped in and posed in a sunbeam that somehow broken through the thick clouds outside.  Her hair, which required an in-depth description because _blonde_ didn't really cover it, was a rich gold that seemed to carry the fresh scent of a mountain meadow on a summer afternoon.  She had a pale, smooth complexion, with rosebud lips, a high, fair forehead, and delicately blush-stained cheeks.  As she moved forward to take a seat (with swaying grace, naturally), Dumbledore noted that her eyes hovered between silver and purple, before settling on an enchanting sea-green.

          "What can I do for you, my dear?" he asked paternally, being forced by very strict PG-13 Moderation rules not to just jump her under-aged bones and have done.

          "Well," spoke the girl softly, "I'm an exchange student from a small, unknown magical academy which was recently overtaken by Voldemort for reasons unimportant to the plot."

          "Ah, say no more!" cried Dumbledore jubilantly, all the while being very impressed by her unspeakable bravery in uttering the Dark Lord's name, "We'll just give you a private Sorting and have your ensconced in your classes in no time!"

          The Sorting Hat was soon placed on the Mary S—mysterious exchange student's glistening head and the Sorting was underway.

          'Oh, God, no…' moaned the Sorting Hat, 'I thought I was done with you Sue-types!'

          'Listen, Hat, just cut the chit-chat and Sort me.  None of this _Sparklypoo_ crap, either.  I want Slytherin!' She muttered nastily in her head.

          'Technically, I can't just give you what you—' the Hat started cautiously.

          'Oh, I'm sorry, didn't I mentioned?  I have a full Certificate of Authorship with the MoA,' the girl added sweetly.

          "SLYTHERIN!" bellowed the Hat loudly.

"Ah, my dear," Dumbledore beamed happily, "Congratulations!  I'm sure you'll fit right in.  And," he added as an afterthought, "We'll put you in with the Sixth Years for your convenience, so that you'll have plenty of classes with our main characters."

          "Oh, that's so sweet of you!  Thank you, thank you!"  She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and surreptitiously waved her hand in front of his face.

          "And separate rooms, too, since I'm sure you have a dark, troubling and very mysterious background that requires you to have a lot of person space," the Headmaster said a minute later.  He summoned up a house-elf to lead the new girl to her rooms.

          The girl exited the room, leaving behind a vaguely troubled old man.  Dumbledore had an uncertain feeling that, for some reason unbeknownst to him, doom was near.  He also had a very curious urge to go and show Minerva McGonagall just why he was titled the _"Headmaster"_.

          As if in foreshadow, Fawkes chose that moment to combust.

A/N:  I chose to add it at the bottom this time around, so that you don't have to read it if you don't want.  I got this plot bunny while doing the dishes, and it just wouldn't die.  I've got a few chapters planned.  If should go like:  Dumbledore (the Beginning), Main Characters, Secondary Characters, Snape (the Ending), and Epilogue.

Disclaimers:  It's mostly JKR's.  The Ministry of Authors is mine.  Don't Sue, there's already way too much of her in this story.

_Sparklypoo_: A house exclusively for Mary Sues.  The idea's not mine, I got it here: http :piratemonkeysinc . com / ms1.htm  (As always, take out the spaces.)


	2. Imposed Love

The Author: Imposed Love

Seamus Finnegan awoke on a bright Saturday morning.  He rolled his head to crack to neck and stretched out his arms with a long groan.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, his arm-stretching ritual was cut short by an abrupt meeting with a face.  His eyes popping open, Seamus turn his head slowly to see—Dean Thomas.  In close-up.  In fact, so close that they were sharing a bed.

Dean Thomas likewise got a very nasty shock when he awoke.  Perhaps more preferably, _his_ shock was an arm in the face.  However, things evened out when his eyes traveled back up the arm to see the arm's owner.  Their eyes met, and both sat up very quickly, indeed.  They threw off the covers and realized that—well… perhaps ridding themselves of the covers hadn't been the best plan.

"Good morning!"  A voice chirped, and the discomfited pair realized that there was an unfamiliar woman with short brown hair and a leather satchel perched on the baseboard of the bed.

With two muffled "Eep!"s, Seamus and Dean pulled up the sheets again. 

"What—wha—" seemed to be the extent of their verbal skills at the moment, so the unwelcome intruder filled them in bluntly.

"I'm from the Ministry of Authors," she informed them, "And you two have been selected by popular demand to be Altered."

Dean hopped out of the bed (Seamus admired his ability to do so without turning red) and began pulling on his jeans, his back to the others.

"What does this…Altering have to do with—" Seamus waved his hand around, unable to find a word suitable for describing the experience of waking up beside his dorm mate and longtime (just) friend.

A small smile was allowed to appear on the brisk woman's face for a moment.  "You'd better get used to waking up beside Mr. Thomas," she said snippily, "because you'll be doing it for the rest of your life."

Dean turned back around and crossed his arms over his bare chest.  "When was this decided?" he asked in a low, threatening voice.  For some reason, Seamus shivered.  The woman advanced until she could easily reach out and touch both of their faces.

"We measured the space between your eyebrows.  You're totally compatible," she explained matter-of-factly.

"No one ever considered that we're compatible _friends_, did they?" Seamus grumbled, and the woman chuckled and waved her hands in front of their faces.  Dean stepped back hurriedly.

"Don't be silly!" she chirped, "There are plenty of people who like to see you as friends.  But they don't matter, since there are influential people who like to see man-on-man action."

"This is ridiculous," Dean ranted as he stormed out of their dorm room, "Hannah is going to be so pissed!"

Seamus felt a strange stir in his stomach.  He wondered if a bouquet of flowers would soothe his long-time lover's ruffled feathers.

The woman pulled a clipboard out of her satchel and made two small checkmarks.  Flipping a couple of pages and scanning down a list, she made a small star beside that word _Romance_ and, after a moment's hesitation, beside the word _Angst_, as well.

A/N:  For sake of regularity, I'm posting Chapters 2 and 3 in segments.

Reviews:

Andaisha: Yo!  You're the only Assoc. to have read it except Megan, and it totally scared Megan.  Apparently, she feels that Dumbledore doesn't deserve any sex drive.  I totally agree.

Little Tigger, Silverthreads, and Mystic Moon6: Here ye be.


	3. It just wouldn't be Neville without evil...

The Author: It Just Wouldn't be Neville Without _Evil_

Neville Longbottom was a really nice guy. Just ask anyone, and they would've been able to tell you that Neville was the world's nicest guy, if anyone had remembered him. However, as it usually happens with very nice people, Neville was often left out or forgotten, through sheer _uninteresting-ness._

So no one was more surprise then he when a person sat down in the chair opposite his and looked as if they were going to talk to him.

A _female_ person, no less.

Tucking Trevor away and running a nervous hand through his hair (which made it stick up in a manner which horribly resembled Harry's), Neville looked at this creature from another world. She had choppy black hair, black eyes, and a heavily made-up face. She wore a too-short Slytherin school uniform skirt, and chunky (if Neville hadn't been so...well, nice, he would have called them hooker boots) black knee high boots. She looked like one of the handful of Mar—er, exchange students who had been randomly sorted into Slytherin a few days ago.

"Er—hi," he said lamely, since her black stare was making him nervous.

"You're lonely, aren't you?" It was more a forceful statement then an actual question.

"Well, not really," Neville mumbled, embarrassed, "I mean, I've got rhythm, I've got Trevor, who could—"

"Toads don't count," the girl snapped impatiently.

Neville gaped dumbly. No one had ever told him this before, although he suspected that plenty of people had wanted to.

"Look," she continued more gently, "You really don't have any friends. You're seen as a slow-witted bumbler. Doesn't any of that make you mad?"

Neville looked around. It was true; in the packed Gryffindor Commonroom, not a single person noticed that he had been trapped and insulted by a freaky-looking Slytherin.

"You're the Gryffindor equivalent of a Hufflepuff," she added matter-of-factly.

That was the last straw. "I am not!" he cried quietly. He was attempting an _angry_ tone, but lack of practice made it more of a _whiny_ sound.

"See what I mean?" the girl said triumphantly, "But I have a way to fix all of it. All you need to do is fill in _this_," she handed him a form penned in shimmering green.

He took it hesitatingly. "What—what is it?" he asked, trying not to sound too curious.

"Oh, it just basically states your intentions to become a main character." The girl's black-painted lips curved just a little as she replied.

Neville scanned the document with a little more interest. He wasn't sure what this creature meant by _main character_, but it did sound awfully—popular.

His eye landed on a section wherein he was asked to check off all of the statements that applied to him. It went something like this:

7) REASONS FOR BECOMING A VILLAIN (Check all that apply):

RevengeDeep-seated rage

PowerBad childhood

PopularityLove of acronyms

Other

"Um..." Neville began, a little confused, "Um... It says _villain_, here... why does it say villain?"

The girl gave a slightly amused huff. "Actually, the term there is pretty misleading. You won't be a 'villain' so much as... well, popularly wicked. Here, why don't I fill that out for you?"

"Oh," he said uncomfortably, "Er, alright. Sure."

The Slytherin made short work of his form and handed it to him to sign. "Here. Prick your finger and bleed a little onto the page, then write your name here. It'll give you your new name to go by, so you can safely commit wicked deeds without being expelled."

Now, that _really_ gave Neville's conscious a twinge. He wasn't sure that he was up to be wicked. I mean, doesn't that usually involve being mean to people? However, the Slytherin girl's quill looked awfully sharp, and it was doubtful that anyone would intercede for him if she decided to stab him to death. He quaveringly pricked his finger and dripped onto the page, the scribbled _Neville_ onto the line. It rearranged itself quickly into...

"'Evil Len'?" Neville asked doubtfully, "What kind of name is 'Evil Len'?"

The girl ignored him, and with a wild wave of her hand into his face (he flinched back), she was off through the Commonroom door. No one saw her leave.

Neville pulled Trevor out and sat patting him nervously.

A week later, Neville received a package in the mail. It contained a voluminous black cloak, a tall top hat, and a large black handlebar moustache, which could be magically affixed to the face and taken off at will. As he stood looking at himself in the loo mirror with the cloak trailing on the ground and the mustache dominating his face, he thought, _Well, perhaps I am a bit boring. And no one will even recognize me in this outfit. And... and..._

Well, hell, he looked _good_.

A/N: sigh I'm not going to give any excuses for the lateness of this, except to point out that this is the only fic I've updated in over half a year, and you're damn lucky to be getting it. And it's all Andaisha's fault. _Kill her!_

Andaisha: Actually, several people at least at able to come up with off-the-wall fics like this one, except theirs are far better. Go read them! Not only have I not written anything on the Pedostache, but I've forgotten the inspiration for the story at all. So there.

Little Tigger: Really? I prefer to think that Dumbledore's genitalia withered up and fell off years ago. Or that he's a Kama Sutra Master. So sue me, I like extremes!

Iron Rabbit: Yes, yes, I little the little nonsense things as well.


End file.
